


on our feet

by fyborg23



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Implied Past Trauma, M/M, Wet Dream
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-21
Updated: 2016-05-21
Packaged: 2018-07-11 06:28:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7033477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fyborg23/pseuds/fyborg23
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Seth jerks awake. He slides a hand down his neck, makes a face at the grimy sweat he feels. His heart's still pounding, and he presses his thighs together against his dick. He's hot, and the thin blanket prickles his skin. Seth doesn't move. It had-- felt so <i>real</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	on our feet

**Author's Note:**

> This story came from [this post. ](http://hastybooks.tumblr.com/post/143182024105/so-from-this-prompt-generator-i-got-this/) Things went a little sideways.

> Wet heat slid down his neck, twisting around his thigh and pressing it down against the ground. His hands ached to touch the smooth lips sucking a mark onto his neck. A hand pressed onto his balls, stroking _there_ , further back, and he jerked at the steady press of those fingers into his ass. The pain, the stretch hurt, but he didn’t move, didn’t want to stop his neck from being touched. Pleasure choked him, his teeth closed around two fingers, hooking around his bottom teeth. He heard a voice, and then saw a dark head bent down to suck him, his dick catching on _that_ mouth, pressing, pulling, come dripping out of him–

Seth jerks awake. He slides a hand down his neck, makes a face at the grimy sweat he feels. His heart’s still pounding, and he presses his thighs together against his dick. He’s hot, and the thin blanket prickles his skin. Seth doesn’t move. It had-- felt so _real_. He could have reached out, tasted them. He turns his face towards the large clock rigged across the barracks. The livid blue numbers say _2:25_. Five minutes before his shift gets the bell.

Seth bites back a moan, pressing his head against the flat pillow. His bones don’t ache, not now. Surrounded by the sour and dusty odors of the second shift, he presses his eyes closed. He still has his papers, tucked in a pouch from his neck. The nylon fibers rasps against his skin, but he presses a hand over the pouch. He’d only have one chance. People like him never get two.

The alarm cries, a screaming sound like a 3-month baby, and Seth jerks his legs onto the ground. The door slides open, showing a thin strip of night, and the barracks fill up with the noises of outlanders jamming on their cobbled-together gear. Seth puts on his most expensive-- and smelliest-- possession: a pair of steel-toed boots, size 15, with a crack across the top part of the right sole, the steel cap showing through a worn out patch on the left toe. Some outlanders, sizes 8 and 9, have to retort to tying the shoelaces around their necks at night. Seth is the only one who doesn’t.

What can you do with a size 15 pair of boots?

The lifting belt Seth’s assigned hangs loose around his waist, the back stitching kept together with a wad of yellowed tape, but he takes it anyway. The more he complains, the less time he has to force down cold oatmeal and watery instant nescafe. He had real coffee, a long time ago, dark and bitter.

But no one gives a damn about people like Seth.

The night deepens, the dark blue turning black. Seth doesn’t have to look at the orange tripod propping up a cracked screen to know it’s 2:45. He avoids looking at the _Days Since_ portion, a piece of paper clipped to the battery case below the sign, and trudges towards the light rakes. The cold lights trickling from the ring around the pit hit the trucks, wheels higher than Seth’s own head, but they look like _ants_ crawling down at the bottom of the pit.

The work crews file down the footpath, narrow and railings strung along the free sides like a spiral of broken teeth. It takes a good 10 minutes to wind down to the bottom of the pit.

No one talks. It’s dark, and it will be dark for three more hours. Seth gets handed a pickaxe, the handle too short for his long arms, but he holds on to it. The cleaved end is sharp. Enough to break the amount he needs for his quota.

They will stop only at ten, when the sun is too hot and starts burning skin off. Well. Not his.

Seth dumps his gravel bin into the trucks. His hands are numb from clutching the pickaxe, swinging it against quartz, each strike ringing up his arms. He can barely curl his hands into fists, and his shoulders droop towards the ground. His ears ring with the clatter of tools and stone.

He blinks, realizes with a start he hadn’t had a thought in his head, his body pressing against the high walls of the pit and his eyes squinting close against the glare of the rising sun. Seth thinks he should be ashamed, but mostly he feels tired.

Seth joins the end of the last work crew to climb up the footpath. One of them, Amos, nods. Seth nods back. He doesn’t say anything; dangerous to speak unless you’ve been spoken to. Amos’ talking to Chibueze, who’s equally as old as Amos. Amos mutters, “This pit. They have us breaking rocks all night, getting us too tired to be awake at normal hours. What’s here? Just us, and the trucks. Almost like they want to punish us.”

Chibueze grunts. Seth keeps his mouth shut, and Amos snorts at him, “What? Lot of good that silver-and-blue passport did you. In the dirt with us.”

Seth shrugs. Amos scrubs at his thick glasses with the hem of his worn work shirt, and keeps walking.

Supper today is a flat stringy disk of meat, grey from overcooking, with a glistening pile of baked beans, pale brown bits bobbing in a sickly-sweet sauce nestled next to a slice of dark bread. Seth saws at the meat, prying it apart with his dull fork, and crams it into his mouth, his teeth gnashing against the bits of gristle. It could be beef, pork, chicken, lizard for all Seth can taste of it. He chokes the chewed-up bits down, his throat straining around the pieces Seth couldn’t chew enough. The bread’s crammed into his mouth, dry and gritty, and the water tastes like gravel dust when he swings from his splintered cup.

The beans pool over the pressed dividers of the metal plate, and even now Seth still _loathes_ them. But he’s still hungry, shuddering with each mouthful of mashed beans before he drinks more water. The water can’t wash away the sticky mush of the beans, and Seth has to wriggle his toes inside his boots to keep from throwing up. He breathes, steadily, and hates himself for wanting to lick the plate clean, like some of the outlanders are doing.

He drags a spit-wet finger along the biggest divider, pressing bread crumbs to his mouth.

Three more weeks, the Integration Agency had told him the last time he stood before their low tables, papers stacked off to the side and Seth feeling stranded, his stomach clenched and cold, like he was in the middle of a road watching a speeding car, with headlights darting over anything in its path before the sudden, inevitable crash.

That had been two months ago.

 

> Seth’s lips felt wet, raw from teeth scraping over it, and he pressed his hand against a smooth chest, his nose against a clean neck. A felt sigh, curling over his ears, and Seth crawled down to press his hand against a dick, not his, lurid pink against his palm, and Seth grinned. A jangle of a belt buckle crawled into his head, in between his ears, and Seth pressed hips down against a smooth surface. It just made sense to lick up, curl a hand under the dick to hold it still, and Seth swallowed around it, closing his eyes against the feel of a hand on his shorn scalp–

Seth startles awake, his face hot. The clock says 2:15, and Seth pounds the thin cot in frustration. He plops over on his side, the creak of the plastic sling underneath him making him even more annoyed. Fuck. Figures once he gets the furthest away he’s ever been from home his dreams get even crazier. He shifts, licks his lips.

People _do_ have sex on this spit of land. He’s heard enough hushed moans and creaky cots and spitting into bare hands to testify for that.

He doesn’t want to fuck. He feels jarred, taken apart, broken down, weighed and made wanting, and he resents everything on this island. The make-work. The shit food. Pissing in a cup to prove he’s not a drunk or on drugs. The dirtiness that never goes away with a twice-weekly spray of cold water and no soap. The smell of pesticides they fog the island with to kill the mosquitoes. The constant surveillance everyone including him has to pull to keep their skin whole, despite cameras perched atop old telephone poles like electronic crows.

Being a outlander.

Seth stares up at the pockmarked ceiling, wadded up balls of toilet paper spelling the local equivalent of _choad_. But all regimes fall and really, we all saw it coming, didn’t we, Bob? The seas rising nine meters? The average temperatures going up 2°C? The crop failures? The oil crash? The hunger? The thirst? The wars?

Didn’t we, _fucking_ Bob?

The alarm squalls _whaaaahhh-WHAAAAAHHHH-WAAAAH_ , and Seth grits himself up to a standing position. As he shrugs off the blanket, his left wrist shoots up a sharp pain straight to his shoulder, and he bites his tongue. If he lags. If he falls behind–

Seth trudges out into the still night, and sees the Integration Agency, their dark shoes getting dust around the ankles, their smart dark suits closing up around them like a sauna. One of them points at him with a pen, and motions him closer.

Seth grinds his teeth, heat spiking up his spine, but he stands still. The pointer flips over a clipboard, and says in too-smooth English, “You are Jared Jones?”

“Yes, but I go by Seth–”

“Jared,” Pointer grins at him, like Seth’s being the one who’s ridiculous when his own papers say Jones, Jared Seth right next to a well-fed version of his face. “We are pleased to say you have passed our background analyses. You will be allowed onto the mainland.”

Seth doesn’t crack a smile. There’s _gotta_ be a catch. Nothing that good ever comes for Seth anymore without a sting in the tail. Seth quirks an eyebrow, and the harsh lights ringing the pits must catch his face since Pointer looks down at his clipboard almost like he’s ashamed.

Pointer clears his throat, “Well, Jared, considering your… status. We’ve arranged a sponsor, as it were.”

“A sponsor,” Seth repeats dully."

Pointer grins, like Seth’s done an especially clever trick, and Seth jerks his eyes down onto the gray dirt to keep from headbutting him. He used to have such a long fuse. Not so much these days. Pointer lifts up his clipboard, “Yes! You’ll be integrating in Östervåla, it’s a wonderful place, you’ll enjoy it.”

Yeah. Sure. Seth still nods, “When will I meet my sponsor?”

Pointer says, “We will transport you to Östervåla, and I suppose you’ll be there before dark! Well, the _other_ dark,” he jokes weakly.

Watching the island recede away in the choppy black waters makes Seth curl his hands around the ferry rail, ignoring the sharp pains racing up and down his left arm. The bob of the ferry makes Seth’s stomach light. He hates being so happy, knows it wouldn’t last.

Still, he laughs, a quiet smothered thing, for the first time in six months right there, on the stern of a beat-down ferry, rocking away from the _pit_.

#  *

Seth’s eyeballs ache.

Seth swallows around the sickly feeling he’s got in his throat. He hasn’t slept since he was plucked off the pit, refusing to believe the Integration Agency’s word. It’s a bitch to stay awake. The train’s comfortable, quiet, _clean_.

There’s even an bottle of water on his tray, casting a shadow of moving light when the sun strikes it through the blue-tinted train window, the curves of it jittering with every turn of the track. The bottle’s made out of pressed, industrialized plastic, and it makes Seth feel passionately jealous. Plastic. How many times did the Jones boys trawl through the old landfill behind that house in Texas, hoping to see unnatural color they could sell to the scraper for 20 cents?

At least until Caleb stupidly stepped on a nail and their mom had found out, ruining it for them.

Seth looks away from the bottle, and at the forest bumping up along the train tracks. If it wasn’t for the dying and defoliated trees this could be the 21st century. The red-backlit clock flashes _1000_ and the shades close down throughout the train car.

Even this far north, solar radiation is punishingly harsh between ten am and three pm. Some summers in Texas, Seth couldn’t even step outside long after sunset, the old broken down interstates sucking up the heat like greedy slugs during the day and vomiting it back at night. He leans back in his seat, and avoids the gaze of Pointer-- Axel, he claimed was his name-- by reading the tourist brochure.

The brochure’s printed in all of the top seven languages of the EU, plus English. Historical irony, that English would still be in the brochure even after the borders closed around the old United States, after Australia stopped all boats _permanently_ , after Canada melted in a collapsing wave of glacier ice and people fleeing civil war.

No one had heard from the Manchester cell in three years at the time Seth had to slide out of old Galveston on a container ship.

But then, didn’t French used to be a mark of whatever passed for a good yeoman? More things change, more they stay the same. To name one: the disturbingly creepy picture of a small, population-sensible blond family, one small child and two well-grown adults, looking up at Seth from the poorly-glossed pages of the brochure.

Jesus.

Seth closes the brochure very carefully, and slides it into the small pocket hanging from the seat in front of him. Not especially subtle, but then his radar’s always been _on_ from day one. These guys, the Integration Agency? Probably took a 10 minute meeting about _those people_ , oh dear. Beauty of being so quiet, Seth gets to pick up what else they’re not saying.

He’s. Positive they’re not going to try to deport him to the Dominion. They don’t extradite to nations who still have the death penalty, and the Dominion take it as biblical _life_.

The train stops at Östervåla, announced with only a smooth stone sign that slides into view as the wheels slow to a stop. Pointer comes to Seth’s seat, a grin pasted onto his face, and Seth stands up. He bites his tongue in satisfaction when Pointer apparently remembers that Seth’s almost a head taller than him, and follows Pointer down the steps to the station platform. The cement’s streaked with mildew, but the trash bins are empty and there’s not a single scrap of chew on the benches.

It’d be desolate, except that there’s a man, wearing a thin beige shirt over drooping pants, who sees Seth first before he sees Pointer. The man gives Seth a small tug on his lips, almost a smirk, and sticks out his hand.

“Filip,” the man says as Seth takes it. Seth clenches his teeth against the _buzz_ he feels, and slides his eyes away from Filip’s narrow eyes towards the small patch of hair on his chin. Seth shakes his hand, “Seth.”

“Not Jared?”

“Jared Jones sounds stupid,” Seth says, and Filip laughs, a small smothered thing. Filip glances at Pointer, and Seth follows his gaze.

Pointer clears his throat, “Well. You’ll make sure _Jared_ does well, hm?”

Filip nods. Pointer clearly feels that he doesn’t need to lecture a _fellow_ citizen on the care and feeding of _him_ , and he makes excuses about having to be in Malmö before the rolling blackouts begin again.

It’s not until the train leaves, slipping out of sight between the dying branches, that Filip says, “What an ass.”

Seth quirks an eyebrow, and he rakes Filip over. For a guy who lives in a small place, population barely-2000, Filip’s well-dressed. His facial hair is well-trimmed, and that means he can afford expensive blades. Filip smiles, too _open_ and Seth’s back prickles. There’s no way that Filip isn’t a counteragent.

_Thanks, Justin_ , Seth thinks resignedly. Filip slides his palm over the back of his neck, and says, “They’re predicting a storm. We should get going.”

Seth curls his lips, “Another _one_?” and Filip looks back at him in confusion before he blinks, makes the connection about other places not having _any_ water at all. Filip turns away, his cheeks red, and mutters, “Follow me.”

They walk on a dirt strip, broken up by jagged pieces of asphalt along the center lane, and what few rusting poles there are warn of long-washed out curves and dangerous grades. The other signs have been broken off at the base, leaving only bare cement posts that no one can move without heavy machinery; and why waste a tractor on a sunk cost? The heat builds, and Seth wrinkles his nose at the smell of horseshit, scattered up and down the dirt road. Horses.

Horses take up too much water, too much fodder, but then this part of the world already _has_ too much water. They’re good for transport and food. Seth’s fairly sure those cows he saw in a picture book would have protested at being herded around much less _ridden_ by humans.

Filip’s not a talker, but neither is Seth. Seth’s feet aches, and his shins are starting to hurt from lifting his steel-toed boots constantly. Filip’s watching Seth, his eyes pressing onto him sidelong, and Seth forces himself to match Filip’s pace. The sun’s hot, not as hot as it could be, but clouds only _scatter_ UV rays around even more, and any cloudy day can mean a thunderstorm.

Seth follows Filip’s turn onto a gravel strip with ruts dug down by thin wheels, and Filip unlatches a wooden gate that has a clay sign reading _Inga Inkräktare!_ Seth looks down at it, and says, “That doesn’t mean trespassers will be shot, does it?”

Filip latches the gate, snorts, “We don’t shoot them.”

Seth raises his eyebrows. He can’t believe the Swedes have… as much faith in the law as they profess to have. He keeps following Filip around the low waves of grain, to a small cabin that barely merits the name. There’s a rain barrel pressed against the south side of it, and a single electric wire snakes up through the trees to more electric lines.

He points at the lines, “Are they that reliable?”

Filip wheels around, follows Seth’s finger, and says, “They schedule their blackouts; if that’s what you mean.”

“Stockholm’s a regular vampire?”

Filip smiles, this one genuine enough that it shows a chipped side tooth, “No power between noon and sunset, and between midnight and sunrise. We’re fucked if it gets above 30 degrees.”

It gets above 40 degrees C this time of the year on the Front Range, nestled right up against the ever-expanding Death Valley. He doesn’t tell Filip that. Seth can imagine it now, Filip hunched over a flickering screen working until the next blackout, telling his bosses whatever detailed psych workup he’s made up of Seth. It’s almost infuriating how Filip’s square hands presses easily against the door, but Seth follows him in.

There’s only a small stove, squat and ugly, made out of precious iron, and a bed that takes up almost half of the tight space. Two blankets-- two!-- in shades of gray spread out across it, and Seth slides a hand over it. Wool; prickles like nothing, but better than the faded synthetic blanket he had in the pit. Filip clears his throat, “Sorry, we’d have to share,” his forehead bright with sweat even in the dim space.

“Beats the ground. But–” Seth puts on a smile, “Do I want to know why you’re sponsoring me?” Seth’s expecting insinuations, some comment about his height, like those old Bond movies. Seth’s got no use for money, and _they_ know it, and what good is ideology if it doesn’t feed you? Stands to reason they’d stick Seth with someone close to his age, maybe see if he really is _that_ easy.

Filip snorts, sits down on the bed, “People are very interested in your brother. They think you’re even more interesting.”

Seth raises his eyebrows, and Filip grins. Seth huffs, “Is your name even _Filip_?”

“Suspicious guy.”

“I was right, though,” Seth says, just a little meanly, watching Filip sprawl out onto the bed. Filip doesn’t have the good grace to look embarrassed, his dark eyes still on him under those long eyelids.

 

> Seth shuddered at the curl of hands over his hips. A taunting voice filled his ears. Seth turned, pressed a square set of shoulders against a wall, his hands catching on flaked paint. Seth panted out a smirk, bit the smooth throat underneath his mouth, salt heavy on his tongue, sucking bruises along a rounded jaw. He pressed against those hands, grinding down on a wet dick, the soft moans deep on his bones. Seth slid his body against theirs, gritty with old sweat and come, groping at a full set of thighs, pressing them apart with his hips. A whisper, throats slack with thirst, Seth’s back being racked with _heat_ –

Seth jerks awake. He’s hard, painfully so, but he still presses his dick between his knees. He doesn’t look at Filip’s side of the bed. He _knows_ though, that Filip’s watching him, his eyes burning a fucking hole in the back of his neck.

Seth straggles up, aching, and drinks from the rain barrel. The water tastes like old wood, but it’s clear and Seth takes three more drinks from the mug attached to it. The late twilight’s full of mosquitoes. Some of them are as big as his thumb. Still, he stays out there, his heart pounding between his ears, his stomach shaky with embarrassment. Fucking stress. It has to be stress, he tells himself, taking out ten mosquitoes with a swat on his bicep. The sun sets, and he makes himself go back in. He doesn’t know what lurks out there at night, and he doesn’t want to find out.

When he walks back in, he doesn’t meet Filip’s eyes. The room’s air is heavy, and his face is still flushed from the dream. Filip’s staring hard at a screen, the harsh light bleaching out any blush he may have.

Just a natural reaction.

#  *

There’s a mildly bitter irony to being the only American in walking distance of Östervåla. Seth’s gotten over the flash of subtle disbelief, the blink of _really?_ before they nod and test their English out on him. Östervåla’s center looks scrubbed bare, and the low gutters running along the roof dumps into the thin stream starting behind it. Seth walks there, Filip right on his side like a tick on a dog, three times a week to learn Swedish.

His classmates, Seth knows by sight, if not by name. Their nameplates, handwritten on the backside of other nameplates, are _Swedish_ names. Seth’s nameplate, by his spot next to the rusty radiator and three rows away from the front, reads _Jakob_. Jakob, the liar, the one who was enough of a dumbass to fight an angel and dislocate his hip. Seth prefers his own, but no, _Jakob, to speak Swedish you must be Swedish_.

How Swedish would Popeyesson be? Amysson? Roaldsson’d be Swedish enough for _them_ , but Seth doesn’t want to give up what’s his. It’s still his name, the only thing he’s got besides his papers. He doesn’t want anyone else to think he would forget. Seth has no love for the old regime-- the one that staggered into the ditch with a bang after a long century of blowing itself-- but the Dominion loathes who he is. _What_ he is. _What_ his brothers are.

Conjugating verbs is better than thinking about Caleb’s whereabouts. Jan, Norwegian, teaching the outlanders Swedish, inflicts himself on the rest of the class. Gossip has it that Jan wrested the job away from the last instructor and the lady hasn’t been heard from since.

Who’d want to kill for the chance to be petty?

Seth bites his tongue and looks down at the worksheet. The class’ a mishmash of old people and kids-- well, not kids, just people that much younger than Seth and make him realize how far and close 17 was. Most of the kids have ragged nails and bloodied knuckles, and a deep-seated loathing of Jan. Seth gets it. His own knuckles bleed at the slightest provocation. But he doesn’t start fights.

Especially now, when he’s just aware how gracious _they_ are.

One of the kids jabs him in the arm with a roughed-out pencil, “Pst.” Seth turns, and it’s the one with a raised scar topped by a grey mark running down his brown face, and he says to Seth, “Rat want to ask you a thing.”

Jan shouts over the pages of a beaten-up book, the white creases barely making the naked lady on the spine look decent, " _Svenska bara_!"

Seth rolls his eyes. The only words they have in common is bad Swedish and so-so English. It doesn’t take much for him to figure out who the kid’s referring to, a pale sickly-seeming girl with watery eyes wearing a pleather jacket wearing through at the cuffs and the elbows. Seth lifts his chin up in question across the room, and she smirks, “Name?”

He points at his nameplate, studiously ignoring the old man clique by the windows looking up from a beaten-up Go board. “This close,” he says in Swedish.

Rat scoffs, " _Truth_ name."

“Rat true?” Seth’s fairly sure that most parents don’t name their kids after vermin.

Rat smiles thinly, her eyes narrowing. Seth makes himself lean back in his seat. Rat’s an angry kid, but he’s not in it to act like he’s some great resistance figure plotting how to overthrow the Dominion. Rat doesn’t seem convinced. Her and the rest of this damn place.

Seth shrugs, “Not for here.”

Rat slouches against the table, jostling her benchmate, a tall Anglo-Nigerian, who gives Seth an eyebrow. She doesn’t say anything. Not that she would. She’s on a strike. She can write and read Swedish better than anyone else in the room, but she refuses to speak it until _they_ finally cave and give her real hearing aid batteries. It’s been a long wait so far.

Seth doesn’t bother hoping that’s the end of “Is Brown Jakob actually a secret badass?” Rumors just keep following him.

When class lets out, Filip’s there, like always, at the end of the creaky playground. There’s no loaf of bread in his arms, and Seth knows damn well they cut enough grain last week for the millers down the road to grind. Filip doesn’t seem bothered by this, leaning his elbows on the gate as he watches small kids throw themselves off the arc of swings. Seth walks towards him, and Filip turns.

Filip flicks his eyes behind Seth, “Looks like you have fans.”

Seth rolls his eyes, peeks over his shoulders. He sees the Rat pack, pretending they’re not watching him and Filip very badly. Most of them have their heads ducked below the popped-up remains of their oversized coats, one of them trying to pose with a rolled-up wad of leaves like it’s a cigarette. They’re doing a decent job of pretending they hang off this section of the log fence, this close to the kindergarten, all the time. He’ll give them that.

“They asked a few questions, my answers weren’t good enough for them,” Seth shrugs. Filip looks back at them, and then gives Seth a sly smile that’s about as cool as a furnace.

Filip tilts his head back, “If you say so, Mr. Jones.”

Seth tears his eyes away from the sturdy line of Filip’s throat, almost glowing in the sun, and stares at the bowed rooftops ringing the old town. Seth’s never had a type-- hard to have one when the fucking pool is roughly the size of a pinhead and that pinhead is really illegal-- but Filip’s disgustingly wholesome, polite to all creatures great and small. It makes Seth’s teeth ache, like he just ate a handful of stevia leaves.

Seth’s sure he was able to lie through his teeth on those badly-disguised psych tests. They don’t know what goes on the inside of his head. His thoughts have always been his, and he’s not going to share them with a counteragent. Filip stares at the kids, and sighs, almost longingly, “What’s the harm in a little excitement?”

Seth raises his eyebrow sharply, making Filip rub the back of his neck after he looks at Seth, muttering, “Maybe the wrong choice of words.”

“Y’know, ‘may you live an interesting life’ is actually a curse, _Mr._ … Whatever the fuck your surname is,” Seth says, the flush along Filip’s temples making him set his teeth smugly.

It’s Filip’s turn to jerk his eyebrow up, “Don’t bullshit me, Seth. You know what my last name is. You were looking at the old yearbooks three weeks ago.”

Seth presses his teeth together, and makes himself shrug casually.

#  *

> Thick hair caught at Seth’s fingers, making him curl his fingers tighter around the strands as he thrust up into the obscenely perfect mouth sucking him off. He didn’t hear a moan as much as felt it, vibrating down his dick and spreading his legs around the hungry clutch of fingers pressed up against his ass. Seth shivered at the slow slide of a dick against his calf, rocking against the sparse curls there, and pressed his hand down harder, gasping at the mean suck he gets for it. Spit down his dick, and it made Seth mouth _so good_ , smile hard at the faint wave of embarrassment he catches from the other guy, moan at how much harder his dick gets sucked after that. Seth caught a flash of pink-red as that mouth pulled off, almost raw and it made him itch, made him want to press his finger against the wide bow of it until he got a sob. Hips rub against Seth’s leg, and Seth pressed the dick curving up towards his thigh against his calf, his palm slick against it. That made _him_ moan, made Seth rumble about how it was his turn now. Seth’s cheeks hurt from smiling, and the inside of his mouth tasted like fresh blood, and none of it stopped him from fucking that mouth, feeling the flutter of a throat failing to open up around him–

Seth wakes up, sweat running down his back. His chest, his balls, his spine-- everything hurts, like he’s been jabbed with a cattle prod, and he curls his hand around his blanket. He kicks the blanket off, whispering _fuck_ just before it hits the swept-clean floor. He intends to leave, to step out and to–

Filip stirs, his eyes half-lidded, as if Seth just woke him up. Seth knows that’s a lie. Filip watches Seth thrash and sweat his way through these dreams, and the only reaction Filip ever seem to have is to just sweat in his general direction. Seth eases himself up, wincing at the way his back peels off from the sheets. The sparse moonlight pushes through the ragged curtains, and Filip curls his hand around Seth’s wrist. Blood thuds up and down Seth, hot and sour, and Filip pulls himself closer to Seth. Seth feels it, the shift of the hay beneath him as Filip gets on his knees and whispers kissing-close in Seth’s ear, “What do you dream about, Seth?”

Seth jerks his wrist away from Filip, “Not your business,” and he doesn’t look back to see Filip’s half-naked sprawl across the bed. He steps out into the sticky night, the humidity a mouth swallowing him whole, and he scrubs his mouth with the back of his hand. The water’s lukewarm in his mouth, and it’s only habit that makes Seth swallow it. His heart’s still racing. He wants to touch himself, to actually come for the first time in–

He blanks out on _when_. Seth didn’t sleep much after he crossed the 40th parallel. Was it with Chase up in Portland running arms? Bluffing his way off Montreal’s island and trying not to smile at the strain of Gally A’s thighs over his own? Or after dumping 800 grand of old USA bills into the Gulf, the oil slick blackening the blue bills and his heart pounding in his ears?

Seth rolls his shoulders. His skin’s tight, tense. Maybe because Filip’s watching him, straining his eyes to see him in the faint moonlight. Seth shifts backwards against the shadows of the lean-to, and he smirks at Filip’s still-visible annoyance at Seth not letting him _watch_. He’s been watched plenty, thanks. _Stared at_ , even. He scrubs a hand through his tight curls and looks out onto the small plot of land.

Filip isn’t the sort to grow _bored_. Seth can still see him lean against the door from out the corner of his eye, and he doesn’t have to turn towards Filip to imagine the almost-smug curve of his mouth. For someone who doesn’t talk a lot, Filip’s got a dangerous mouth.

Seth comes back in when he’s tired of the mosquitoes nibbling at the patch of skin behind his knee. Filip’s propped up against the wall, his arms folded across his chest. Filip stritches at his chin, “You know, my reports are getting thin.”

“Reports,” Seth mock-gasps into the dim room, “You don’t mean you’ve been spying on me–”

“Jones.”

Seth smiles thinly. So Filip can lose that calm control, that little sheen of arrogance that probably comes from being a golden boy. It’s been a while since Seth was on the other side of whatever conversation they’re mapping out, but every cell has someone putting the screws to them, holding their feet over the hopefully-metaphorical fire. Even _governmental_ sorts.

Just a good thing Seth’s always been a self-starter.

Filip swears, a slick ugly spit, and shoves his hair back, “I’m serious.”

“And were they serious when they left me in the pit for _months_ ,” Seth says, his gut full of ice, “Were they serious when they picked you as my _handler_.” Seth smiles, “Sweden’s isn’t as nice as they keep telling themselves they are. Especially with brown folks.”

Filip winces. He doesn’t counter it, which is more than Seth credited him for. He swallows, and says, “Your brother. You know who I’m asking about.”

“I haven’t seen Justin in years,” Seth says, carefully. If Justin had an ounce of sense in that ginger head of his, he should’ve shaved it. With that, Justin could look like a short-ish, white-ish guy-- and maybe-- not be picked out by the Dominion. There’s a reason why Seth never rushed any dick-swinging bailiff, and it’s not just because he prefers to watch.

Filip sighs. “You do realize there is…” He stops. “I don’t like spelling shit out. You’re a smart guy, Seth.”

“What’s Swedish for ‘we’ll screw you without lube’?” Seth snorts, “And what would your bosses do when they figure out where Justin is? Stage an invasion of a place that still has three functioning nuclear bases, yeah, that’d end well.”

“Pressure the–”

Seth laughs, his tongue between his teeth. Yeah. The Dominion’s full of crazy white people who’ve had _we’re the best nation in the world, God bless us and smite them_ dripped into their veins from day fucking one, and they all have guns. Plenty of sympathizers, suppliers too, in the lingering rags of the US. And if the Swedes think that Texas wouldn’t jump into any skirmish right on their fucking _border_ –

Texas is still really pissed about conceding the Sabine river.

Filip sucks on his lip, “My bosses expect results. Actionable intelligence.”

“Funny how they’re asking for it after taking me out of the loop for _months_ ,” and Seth thumbs his chin when Filip deflates even more. It’s almost like kicking a puppy, but Seth’s been in a puppy-kicking mood for a while. Seth sighs and sits next to Filip.

Filip turns his head and says, “But you’re a cell–”

“I’m not.”

“The kids–”

Seth folds his hands together, “Really. I’ve got better guest manners than that.” Even in the dim moonlight Seth can see Filip flush.

They don’t say anything, and Filip reaches for a slim glass cask resting atop his trunk, “Spilt slush.”

“Will it put hair on my chest,” Seth says, taking it from Filip, who just smirks, “I don’t have _any_.”

Seth takes a swing rather than respond to _that_. The liquor burns, flushes him hot and then cold, and Seth watches Filip take an even smaller swing from it. Filip shudders, caps the flask. Seth’s had worse and better, but Filip’s clearly never had worse.

That seems like an important piece of knowledge, and Seth can almost align it with Filip’s even younger face in a moldy yearbook, with his nervousness, with his _job_. Seth sighs, “Do you even like being an counteragent?”

Filip scrubs his hands against the sheet, “It’s important,” his voice flat.

Seth closes his eyes, allows himself to think about the last time he had to something was important. Important that the cigarette boat be pressed full speed ahead, important that the shrill cries of someone being dissolved by the Dead Zone’s acidic waters be ignored–

He makes himself stop there. Just happens that believing in causes gets you killed. He’s still alive. That matters. It should.

#  *

Filip keeps making reports.

He sucks on his lip, chews on his nails as he sweats out very old information onto the keyboard. None of them write anything down except for these fucking _reports_. Filip still scrawls how to spell an compound noun, on the worn leg of his pants, before he presses it out on the keyboard. The computer’s so old it doesn’t have _Swedish_ spell check.

Seth keeps learning Swedish.

He’s learned enough to know that Filip’s grammar is not that great, his style self-conscious, and that Filip hates it when Seth reads over his shoulder. Filip shoots an irritated look the tenth time Seth allegedly gets up to go get some water, and catches Seth looking at the monitor. Seth curls his lips, brushes the dark hank of hair over Filip’s collar, and watches him fight not to jump out of his skin.

Seth pries out each piece of information carefully, just enough to keep Filip’s superiors from making a network map, to keep them on this side of _curious_. His thoughts are still his own, even if he handled too many forged papers not to put together _names_ , _places_ , _events_. Loyalty isn’t quite convenient, not when he’s got a price on his head, but neither is giving a fucking phone book to _them_. Still, each time Seth tells Filip something his stomach churns and his mouth floods with saliva.

This must be what playing mental chess feels like, mapping out each pawn and thinking about the other side’s rooks, the knights and the sly bishops, fools’ mates and scholars’ mates.

Seth used to be more of a checkers guy.

“Don’t do that,” Filip says, after Seth figures out what to tell him _this_ week. Seth raises his head from his elbow, lifting it up above their bed, an soft _hm?_ coming out of his mouth. Filip rakes his hand through his hair and quirks a smile, “You look a little up to the left when you’re telling me these things.”

“I have to _recall_ them,” Seth says, and Filip snorts.

“I know that means you’re lying, Mr. Jones.”

Seth smirks. He’s not _actually_ lying. He’s left-handed anyways, so whatever magic lying eye movements Filip’s looking for ought to be _reversed_. Not that Seth’ll read him onto it. He needs just enough space for this match, and Filip will try to press every advantage he has against Seth. They both know Seth’s just that more experienced at this game.

Filip’s fieldcraft has a lot to be desired. He likes being the one in charge a little too much, thinks he’s clever a little too much, but Seth can see why they would pick a kid from this backwater instead of Stockholm to converse with outlanders. He’s likeable, even with the golden boy arrogance that lies on his head like an ugly hat. Probably fuckable, even. Seth’s honest with himself to acknowledge very quietly that the sort of arrogance Filip has makes him want to do _things_.

Seth’s noticed the slight tilt Filip gives him when they’re pressing the hand plows, like he’s tracing his body through the thin flax shirt hanging from Seth’s back. He’s fairly sure Filip wants to do things _to_ him, and Seth considers distracting Filip, the old-fashioned way. It’d be easy, just a couple of guys getting off.

Knowing Seth’s luck, it wouldn’t work. Everyone on this side of the ocean knows about that Swiss guy slipping his traces and winding up on the tiny island of Vancouver with the guy he was _handling_. The rumors got a little fuzzy after that. From the little Seth can piece together Filip’s superiors refuse to let that happen to one of their best _assets_.

If Seth’s one of their best sources of information on North America–

That’s not a chess match he wants to play out in his head.

#  *

Seth’s always had a little itch at the back of his head, ever since he could remember. It’s not quite a sixth sense, not when people have always watched him with varying degrees of suspicion, but damn Justin was right when he cracked about not being paranoid when you were actually _right_.

Östervåla is small, and new faces stand out. Especially when those new faces come with clothes stitched together by machine, and with voices pressing vowels together that almost stand out this far from Stockholm. And Seth’s learned enough regional history to get the _snobbery_ on everyone’s part. No proper Stockholmer would bother with Östervåla.

Filip turns even whiter when Seth points them out at the market, with a nudge in his ribs and a slow tilt in their direction. Seth smiles hard, and turns back to the small heap of salted fish he’s haggling over. Most of them are nasty carp, fattened with other smaller carp. Hopefully, the salt will overwhelm _that_ flavor. Filip watches the Stockholmers with an narrowed look and mutters, “Why.”

Seth closes his hand over the patched-up net bag and says, “Not up to scratch, hm?” Filip glares, and Seth bites down on his lip as he walks towards _home_. Filip has to walk a little faster to catch up, and he frowns at the new collection they’ve picked up behind them.

“This doesn’t worry you?” Filip says. Seth gives him a sidelong look. He’s spent months in a small room that he couldn’t stand up in. Weeks on a rusting container ship futilely wriggling his toes so he wouldn’t loose his last meal. And several unpleasant seconds with a gun pointed at his face. Filip quirks a grimace, and mutters _never mind_ as he rubs the back of his neck.

It’s not until they get back onto the dirt road, their tails a little lost in the new growth, that Seth can say, “They’re pretty interested in us.”

Filip flushes. He stops in his tracks, “Mr. Jones.”

Seth grins, “And Mr. Whoever the Fuck you are.”

“They want me to–” Filip flails around, makes some awkward gestures with the bread he’s got in his arm. Awkward _sexual_ gestures. Seth looks Filip up and down, and raises his eyebrow.

“You…” He pauses, " _Up_ to that job?"

Filip flashes his middle finger to him, looking just that much younger for an instant. Seth steps a little closer. Filip clutches the bread closer to his chest, sweat beading at his temples, “I’m not a _virgin_.”

“Good.” Seth opens the gate, hitching the latch open. Filip closes it behind him with a loud _creak_ , looking like he’d rather slam it.

Seth presses the fish into the pan, watching Filip slice the bread into thin pieces. Filip’s hands are still steady, even with fuck knows what going through his head, and maybe that makes Seth relax a little.

Seth leans against the bed post, “You’re not bad-looking, I suppose,” and Filip jerks his head up, his dark eyes flashing.

Filip curls up his lip, “I can lie back for Sweden, I suppose, for your ass.”

It’s Seth’s turn to flip him off, and Filip sticks his tongue in his cheek, his hand moving in a parody of a blow job. Seth smirks. Yeah, Filip may not be a _virgin_ but he doesn’t know what to do with his damn mouth and that fucking peacock bravado.

#  *

Filip already knows what Seth looks like naked. Just like Seth knows what Filip looks like naked, the one-room cabin being _precisely_ what it is, with any lingering embarrassment Seth’s had about being naked in front of not-friends ground out of him months, possibly years ago.

Seth already knows that Filip’s arms are corded, almost wiry, and covered in a partial tan, his torso shockingly pale under his hands when Filip skims his own hands over his chest, almost _mocking_ as he looks back at Seth with his clothes on the clean-swept floor.

Seth’s got a farmer tan too, brown against darker brown. He smirks when Filip blinks at _that_ just as Seth pulls his own shirt over his head, and smiles just not very nicely. Seth perversely wants to pose, just like how Filip’s lounging on the bed with his head propped up on his hand. Filip looks at Seth, his eyes making Seth’s dick just on this side of hard, and it’s almost a pleasure to have Filip be this outrageously, fucking _rude_. His pants join his shirt on the floor, and Seth stares right back at Filip, pays attention to Filip’s semi just before he slides his eyes up to Filip’s face.

Filip’s splotched with pink-- his joints, his face, his fucking dick-- and Seth presses a knee onto the bed. Filip presses his thumb against the side of Seth’s neck, his pulse clashing with Seth’s own. Seth leans closer, and Filip strokes Seth’s thin beard before he says, “I’m not sure. How convincing I can be.”

Seth curls his fingers around Filip’s hair, _pulls_ at the fine strands. He looks down at the twitch Filip makes against him. They’re almost the same height, but Filip seems even smaller like this, almost _sweet_. Seth licks his lips, “Don’t worry.”

Filip thumps his arm in response.

Seth grins, kisses Filip, who jerks againsts the hold Seth’s got on his hair, winces against his mouth. Seth rubs his thumb at the corner of Filip’s lip, drawls, “Your secret agents didn’t know I like kissing?”

Filip narrows his eyes hotly at Seth, lurches against him to kiss back–

Seth pulls at Filip’s hair again, making Filip curse, and Seth says softly, “Really, Filip.” Filip chokes on a breath when Seth slides in a thigh in between Filip’s solid legs, and rubs up against Filip’s balls, warm and heavy against Seth’s skin, “You’re supposed to be manipulating _me_ with your dick–”

Filip thinks so _obviously_ , a little frown line across his forehead, his eyes almost glowing like an LED light. Filip tilts his chin up, leaning against Seth’s hold on his hair, “You’re not as cool as you pretend to be–”

Seth drags the side of his free hand against Filip’s sternum, “Ever heard of being careful of who you pretend to be, because you might become it?”

Filip laughs, a real one because it’s a little thin and grim, and Seth can see a patch of heavier stubble underneath Filip’s lower lip, scratchy against his mouth. Filip shivers, despite the heat outside, _inside_ , and hitches his hips closer to Seth, his eyes closing carefully.

Filip’s eyelashes are so long, Seth thinks with a faint sense of incredulity, and feeling Filip’s nails dig against the new muscle in Seth’s arm is-- reassuring. Filip licks his lips as he opens his eyes, and kisses Seth, his nails pressing against the soft underside of Seth’s arm, hurting just _right_ for this fucked up place.

Seth kisses back, plenty of teeth that makes Filip moan and slide his mouth against Seth’s jaw, his dick sliding stickly across the hollow of Filip’s hip.Filip slides his teeth against Seth’s lower lip, making Seth shiver, and Filip does it again, sucks harder, and Seth’s almost tempted to lick at Filip’s lips, see if he’d squirm–

Filip sucks at Seth’s lip, pauses, the thin skin around his lips prickly from rubbing against Seth’s beard, “This is–”

Seth presses him against the bed, grins against the corner of Filip’s jaw, “Overthinking it,” and presses the hell of his hand against Filip’s dick. Filip grits out a _fuck you_ and strokes Seth’s dick just to prove a point, and laughs when Seth slides up into Filip’s hand. Seth presses his leg up even higher, listens to Filip whine a little high in his throat. Filip clutches at him even more, and Seth knows it’d be so easy to jerk Filip off, to flick his thumb over the wet tip of his dick until his thighs shook and then _keep_ going, make Filip a little crazy–

He doesn’t want to do it, though, not when Filip’s finally dropping that dumb good boy face, his hand just good enough on Seth’s dick that Seth _knows_ that Filip wasn’t quite _lying_ to him–

_Fuck_ , Filip sighs in Swedish, and Seth slides Filip’s hand off his dick, presses it against the bed and oh, yeah, Filip just got a little harder in Seth’s hand. Seth kisses the divot Filip’s doing his damn best to put in his own mouth, slides his kisses down Filip’s throat, and that makes him _freeze_. Seth flicks his eyes up, and Filip lifts his head up enough to look down at him, his breath harsh and loud in the tight space between them, and Seth scrapes his smile across Filip’s almost-smooth chest. Filip shouts, and Seth presses his hand over Filip’s mouth, says, “What was that about being _convincing_?”

The hot glare Filip gives Seth is right, and Seth doesn’t move his hand away from Filip’s face, his fingertips pressing against Filip’s cheek just as he breathes _on_ Filip’s dick. Filip moans, curses underneath Seth’s palm, and Seth bites Filip’s stark-pale thigh hard, enough that Filip jerks away from Seth’s mouth, his hand clasped over the mark Seth’s made with his mouth. Filip’s still hard, and Seth curves his fingers over Filip’s dick, “Sorry.”

Filip squirms, even more when Seth slides his lips just over the head, pressing against the edge of Filip’s foreskin. Seth presses him down with an arm slung across Filip’s hips, feels the strain of his hand scretching up to keep Filip _quiet_ , the humid breaths Filip makes against Seth’s fingers, and it’s worth it to be able to do something his _own_ way–

Seth’s rusty, clumsy at the weight of a dick in his mouth, but he knows enough, sucks just hard enough for Filip to press his thighs closer around Seth’s shoulders, licks up the underside of Filip’s dick and sucks more as he grinds his palm against the head, strokes his fingertips around Filip’s dick as he mouths the skin between it and his balls, presses his fingers against Filip’s hip when he tries to move _again_. Seth slides away, and Filip clenches his fists against the sheet, his hips trying to follow Seth’s mouth. Seth looks down at him, his hair mushed against the sheet and his throat slick with sweat.

It’s fucking fantastic to be able to say _no_ like this.

Seth shoves his fingers into Filip’s mouth, feels the moan against his knuckles. Filip’s pinkness is _red_ now, and Seth drags his fingers out slowly, maybe just to see how Filip looks like with his lips stretched around something of his. Filip moans, his chest heaving a little like he’s just had a little bit of a hard time breathing with Seth’s hand over his mouth.

Filip gives him a slow look-over, and tugs at Seth’s dick, “You’re not as mean as you pretend to be either.”

Filip sucks him off carefully, his lips only brushing the curl of his hand around Seth’s dick, panting like it’s _work_ , his tongue so light it circles around from being a tease to being hot to being a fucking goddamn cocksucking _tease_ , but Seth doesn’t curl his fingers in Filip’s hair, doesn’t grind his hips against Filip’s face. No, Seth sits there on the bed, the rough sheet sticking to his back, watching and feeling Filip sprawl between his legs, rocking his mouth against Seth’s dick, and fuck, it’s a relief when Filip pulls off and jerks him off rough and fast–

Seth comes, says “Fuck,” when Filip leans down and licks at him even _more_ , his thin lips smearing come all over his fist and Seth.

Filip looks up at him just before he gives him a slow suck, too much, too good, and painful, the sort that makes Seth press his toes against the sheet in appreciation. Filip licks just a little more, the very opposite of a _tease_ now, and it’s really too much.

Seth presses his fingertips against Filip’s head, a silent _please_ , and Filip takes his sweet time uncurling his hand from Seth’s spent dick. Filip curls up to say in his ear, "So fucking _polite_ ", and Seth huffs a laugh before he presses Filip against the sheet with one hand, “Fuck you,” and Filip licks his lips.

“That’s–” Filip tries, and Seth leers, “You sound very convincing, Filip.”

Filip rocks his dick against Seth’s thigh, and it’s the easiest thing Seth’s done in a while to stroke him off, to match the flush on Filip’s face with purple teeth marks at the base of his neck, to make Filip breathe hard against him until he comes with a snap up against Seth’s chest, and to press Filip back on his back and to let Filip drape his arm over his face as he chews some more on his lip.

Seth cleans himself off with a cupful of water, and watching Filip’s breathing return to something normal. Filip levers himself off the bed, watching Seth re-dress, and says, “Are _you_ convinced?”

Seth shrugs, and that makes Filip’s shoulders relax a little, almost like he found what he was hoping for. What, exactly, Seth doesn’t know, but… he can guess.

#  *

The letter arrives at the start of fall, sealed in a small square with red tick marks along the edges and wrinkles underneath the seal where _they_ steamed it open.

There’s just one word on the envelope-- _Seth_ – in Justin’s rough hand, or at least a good copy of it made by someone who figured out that Justin wasn’t able to write until he was eight. As kids, Seth once mocked him about it, and Justin had pushed him from off the top of the playset, gave Seth a massive bruise on his ass for _weeks_. Their mom didn’t know about the fight, and none of them would have told her.

Seth knows he’s stalling. Doesn’t want to know what the letter says.

It’ll be in English. Swedish comes easier and easier to Seth. He can’t send it, yet he can take it. Understanding, but making it just muffled enough that it’s like hiding in rushes at mid-summer.

Seth woke up the other day, dreaming of Filip clinging to the sheets while Seth sank into his ass, both of them cursing and clawing at each other in Swedish. Seth had called him _pretty_ in the dream, feeling the heavy Swedish fall out of his mouth, and woke up to Filip holding down his limbs and calling his name–

They had fucked then, making the close bed smell like their come, getting themselves warm in the cooling night. The small space’s been almost a dream, enough to eat, enough to breathe, enough to pretend.

Seth mangles the envelope open with his finger. He takes out the tightly folded square of paper and unfolds it with his eyes closed. He hears Filip open the door, stop just at the threshold, watching him. Feeling Filip’s eyes on him is what makes Seth finally open his eyes.

_Told them they miscounted the Joneses. Love you._

A tight ball clutches his throat, and Seth crushes the letter in his hand. Justin’s as good as dead, with walls around him up so high he’d be dirt old before he stepped out of them. Seth sits down on the ground heavily, pressing his head between his knees. He forces in a breath, out-in-out, until the tears are tacky on his cheeks. Filip’s even paler than usual when Seth looks up, and Seth scrubs at his face.

“He lied, cheated, stole. But we all would’ve done it for each other,” Seth says, staring at a small bulge of the daubing on the opposite wall, “Hell, _I_ –”

Seth’s eyes sting, and he tilts back his head, “Our dad wasn’t around much, y’know. Mom was great-- but–” Seth draws a thin smile, “Fucking Dominion. I didn’t have anything to do with Nashville. I was in Portland. A shitty grey city. Trying to lie low. You know.”

Filip kneels next to him, and rests his hand on Seth’s shoulder. He doesn’t try to say _sorry_ , or any other bullshit. Seth could love him for that. Filip curls his arm around Seth, and looks at the ground, letting Seth blink away the hot husk of _hurt_ just right behind his eyes. _Please let Caleb be alive_ , Seth thinks, for any good that’d ever do.

Seth inhales slowly, presses his feet against the ground. He hands the letter to Filip. Filip takes it, with only the slow slide of his eyes giving away the fact that he’s even reading it, and asks, “Do you want to see it again?”

It’s not just the letter Filip’s talking about, fucking Swedes and their loaded words. Seth clenches his teeth against the sour taste of anger, and shakes his head, “I don’t know.”

Filip nods, puts the letter away. He gets up to get water for Seth, and Seth takes it out of reflex. Drinks it too, and the clean taste makes Seth feel a little homesick for the fine grit in the water they drew from the neighborhood well. Seth sighs, and gets up slowly. Filip presses his back against the wall, and pushes at a cuticle as he says, “I won’t tell them if you don’t, Mr. Jones.”

Seth stops at the doorway, and turns back to look at Filip. Filip’s pressing against his nailbed, his lip caught between his teeth, and Seth rests his forehead against the doorjamb.

“And how long will they believe it?” Justin’s almost as good as dead, and Seth can feel himself hurtling along _that_ very unchosen trajectory. Seth’s no martyr. There’s a reason why he’s here and the rest of the Joneses aren’t.

Filip scrubs his face, “Not doing anything is as important as doing something, sometimes.”

Seth makes himself laugh, cringes at how _weak_ it sounds, “Undying love there, Filip?”

Filip doesn’t say anything. Seth steps outside, curling himself against the cooling air. The sun goes down, in vivid red tones that hits Seth’s eyes and makes them water. He’s got a craving for the harsh sharpness of the liquorice cordial he’s got stowed somewhere under his side of the bed, but–

Seth doesn’t want to repeat that part of the Joneses story. Filip stands next to him, and offers him his coat. Seth takes it silently, and Filip pulls him in close. Whispers in his ear, “They chose me. Not the other way around.”

That yearbook picture of Filip, looking strangely young, like half-carved stone, flashes into Seth’s head. He can just imagine it, a line of schoolkids and some grey face pointing at Filip and telling him he’s suited, that if he wants the best for his family, he’ll do it without bitching. Seth pulls Filip closer, and Filip sighs.

“Long as it takes,” Seth mutters, and Filip squeezes him tighter before he pries himself away. Filip croaks out a _yeah_ , and sniffs quietly. Filip’s his usual self when they sit down to their evening oatmeal, his face blank and his lips curled, and Seth is perversely proud of him. Filip Forsberg, a _liar_.

The letter gets burned to ash. Filip makes his report, his hands clenched in between paragraphs, and Seth curls his hand over Filip’s nape. Filip looks up, his smile sharp, and he presses a careful kiss onto Seth’s mouth. Seth closes his eyes against the strange sweetness, and turns to his Swedish workbook.

Seth should start thinking about the future.

**Author's Note:**

> [my tumblr!](http://hastybooks.tumblr.com/)


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